


Five Fictitious Liaisons featuring Marius Pontmercy

by iberiandoctor (Jehane)



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 5 Things, Bondage, Enemies to Fake Lovers, Fake BDSM, Fake Dating, Forced Intimacy, Gardens, Gardens & Gardening, Loyalty, Marius’ Daddy Boner, Only One Bed, Sad old men, Undercover, fake relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 16:42:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20361745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jehane/pseuds/iberiandoctor
Summary: … or, five fake canon-era dates, in five different universes, involving our favourite lawyer.





	Five Fictitious Liaisons featuring Marius Pontmercy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Apathy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apathy/gifts).

**1.**

([**When both men are sincere and good, no men so penetrate or amalgamate each other than an old priest and an old soldier.**](http://www.online-literature.com/victor_hugo/les_miserables/169/))

The monumental church of Saint-Sulpice was a mainstay of religious life in Paris. Founded in 1646 by parish priest Jean-Jacques Olier — whose failing sight had been restored to him via a miracle, as Saint Paul’s on the road to Damascus — its completion owed more to happenstance than to meticulous planning. Its construction had been impeded multiple times: by the _Fronde_, by a lack of funds, and by the sacking of its chief architect, who had built a treacherously ornate bell-tower upon the crossing of the church transept that threatened to overbalance the whole structure and which had to be removed in disgrace. Its southern tower was of baroque design; its northern, newer tower was tall and neoclassical; its interiors were vast and monastic, save for the baroque Chapel of the Virgin that was presided over by a white marble statue of the Blessed Lady.

It was behind a pillar of this chapel that Churchwarden Mabeuf had his accustomed place, which he preferred to the stall in the main nave to which he was entitled.

The reason concerned with the warden’s brother. M. l'Abbé Mabeuf, the curé of the modest town of Vernon in Normandy, numbered among his flock a war veteran named Georges Pontmercy, who had been chief of a squadron of cuirassiers at Waterloo. For his fearlessness in battle, he had been made a baron, as well as an officer of the Legion of Honour by the Emperor himself. And yet under the Restoration, he had been cast out from his late wife’s family, estranged from his small son, and placed under surveillance by the Crown. 

This hardened war hero spent his days in quiet, tending to his small garden far from his family and political intrigue. He created no conspiracies, he was unfailingly kind and self-effacing to strangers and small children, and he sacrificed no one but himself.

Mabeuf was most decidedly not a military man; the sight of a sword or a gun chilled his blood, and he would not approach a cannon, even at the Invalides. He would not ordinarily have gravitated towards this decorated soldier. 

Their acquaintance arose through sheer happenstance, in the spring of 1817. 

One Sunday, the last Sunday of April, Mabeuf had arrived at Saint-Sulpice rather later than his wont. Rather than cause any disruption to proceedings by entering the wardens’ stalls, he slipped into the Chapel of the Virgin. There, behind a pillar adjacent to the entryway, he came upon an unusual sight.

A tall, robust man of military bearing knelt behind the pillar. He wore a rosette on his shabby blue coat. His bared head was greying, and as the light fell down upon him from the celebrated windows, Mabeuf could clearly glimpse his face.

It was the noble, square-jawed face of a soldier who had endured much in the service of his country. The jagged scar that ran across it only served to enhance its manly air. But it was not this old wound which surprised Mabeuf.

Instead, what was surprising was that the soldier was weeping like a child. Unabashed tears rolled down those weathered cheeks which the man did not wipe away; he did not even blink, but kept his eyes fixed on the pew front of him. 

In that pew sat a tall woman and a boy, whom Mabeuf could see in profile. To his unpractised eye, the woman seemed to be in her fiftieth year, and was extremely modest in dress. The boy looked to be around seven or eight, curly-headed and rosy-cheeked. Every so often, he would glance around at his surroundings with bright, curious eyes, and when he cast his eyes in the direction of the pillar behind which Mabeuf and the soldier were concealed, the other man’s broad shoulders would convulse with a silent sob. 

Mabeuf’s heart wrung with pity for this virile man, whose grief he did not then comprehend.

Immediately after Mass ended, the man rose abruptly and left the chapel. The woman and the boy left after a more seemly interval; the boy appeared restless, the woman holding firmly to his hand. Mabeuf followed the recessional of churchgoers, but this strange incident stayed with him. 

The next Sunday, out of curiosity, Mabeuf again abandoned his rightful place in favour of the Chapel of the Virgin. There, he saw the woman and the boy, but not the soldier, and this pattern was repeated throughout May.

However, on the last Sunday of June, the scarred soldier made a reappearance. He was wearing exactly the same attire, though his hair seemed to have whitened further, and his cheek was more tanned. The same sequence occurred: the man would watch the woman and the boy, concealed behind the pillar that also concealed Mabeuf, and would weep as though his heart were breaking. Mabeuf could not fathom why, but he was too shy to approach the soldier to ask him what was ailing him. 

He did pursue enquiries, after his own fashion: the woman was part of the regular congregation at Saint-Sulpice, and it was no large feat to discover her name as Mademoiselle Gillenormand, but there the trail ran cold.

Mabeuf and the sorrowful veteran would not have become acquainted had happenstance not intervened.

That summer, Warden Mabeuf went to Vernon to visit his brother, the curé. Who should he encounter there but the mysterious soldier of Saint-Sulpice? Mabeuf recognised him at once, and, as their eyes met under the clear blue Normandy sky, it seemed that the soldier also found him familiar. He looked away uncomfortably, and hurried away in the opposite direction.

Mabeuf plucked up the wherewithal to enquire of his brother.

M. l'Abbé said: “That’s Colonel Pontmercy. Lives here alone. Has family in Paris — father-in-law, wealthy aunt, a child. I don't know exactly what all, but there’s some estrangement.”

Mabeuf frowned. “I may have seen the aunt and child. For I encountered your colonel at mass at Saint-Sulpice in Paris, watching over a woman and a boy and weeping like the angels over men’s sins.”

M. l’Abbé said, thoughtfully, “You know, I believe a rare petunia has finally come into bloom in the church garden,” and in no time they had a pretext to pay the colonel a visit. 

This visit led to others. The colonel was reserved at first, but ended by opening his heart, and the curé and the warden finally came to know the whole history: how Pontmercy’s wife had died, and how his father-in-law had threatened to disinherit the child unless the colonel relinquished all contact with his son. 

Mabeuf could not believe such meekness and humility could co-exist with such martial courage. He kept finding reasons to visit Vernon, and over time when Pontmercy made his intermittent pilgrimage to Paris, he fell into the habit of visiting Mabeuf at his modest home. 

As the years bore on and their acquaintance deepened, the colonel and the warden would proceed to Sunday Mass together, and then they would dine together before Pontmercy’s return to Vernon. 

Mabeuf’s housekeeper, whom he had nicknamed Madame Plutarque, took to commenting about the colonel. “It is good that Monsieur has such a friend!” she would say. “I took all soldiers for carousers, but this one is respectful and speaks softly to Monsieur, and drinks milk instead of wine.”

“That is fortunate, for we have very little wine,” Mabeuf would say; in truth, he had very little by way of friendship, either. He had never succeeded in loving a woman as much as a tulip bulb, or a man as much as a rare book, which may have been why he found himself so drawn to this poor colonel, who loved his son so much he was willing to give him up.

A less timid friend than Mabeuf might have encouraged Pontmercy to plead his case to his late wife’s father, or to confront Aunt Gillenormand and demand to speak to the boy. But Mabeuf felt it was not his place to do either of those things. Instead, he confined himself to clasping his friend’s hand as Pontmercy watched over the treasure he longed for and could not partake of, to provide as much comfort as he could.

All proceeded without variation until happenstance intervened again several years later.

On that fine Sunday in June, Pontmercy was punctual as ever, and even had a smile for his host. The men walked arm-in-arm past gardens in full bloom, pinks and dahlias and geraniums, falling into their usual discourse over the merits of heath mound and the cultivation of shrubs from America and China. 

As was their wont, they concealed themselves behind the pillar a little after Mass had started. As Mabeuf was settling into his seat, he felt a tremendous tremor go through the man at his side. 

“What is it?” he whispered. 

Pontmercy gestured, seemingly at a loss for words. Mabeuf followed the gesture. Instead of that severe, greying sentinel that had always been present at the boy’s side, there was a younger woman in the plain garb of a housekeeper, ringlets escaping from under her bonnet.

Aunt Gillenormand must have taken ill, and sent this servant girl to escort the young Pontmercy to Mass in her place. 

The boy had grown taller; he must be eleven or twelve now, and his curly head reached the young woman’s shoulder. But his bright eyes had not lost their look of wonder, and Mabeuf half expected that keen gaze to penetrate through the marble pillar and discern the suffering father hidden behind it.

Neither man could concentrate on the readings — which were from the book of Samuel — nor the homily that followed. Pontmercy trembled and wept as from his earliest days; try as Mabeuf might with gentle caresses and whispered words of encouragement, he could provide no comfort to his friend. 

As the final prayers were said, so too this good warden raised his own prayer for the sake of the grieving colonel, and God saw fit to answer.

When Pontmercy rose to his feet, Mabeuf put out his hand to stop him.

“What are you doing?”

“Trust God; trust me,” Mabeuf said, urgently, and as the recessional music began to play and the congregation started to make their way out of the church, he took Colonel Pontmercy by the arm and steered the both of them into the path of the servant girl and the boy.

“Good day, Mademoiselle,” Mabeuf said, approximating a calm he did not feel. “You are of the Gillenormand household, are you not? I am a warden of Saint-Sulpice; I occasionally see your mistress here, with the little one. My name is Mabeuf.”

“Good day, Monsieur,” the girl replied. She seemed the trusting sort, and the mention of her mistress and Mabeuf’s occupation had put her at ease. “I’m called Nicolette. Mistress Gillenormand has not been well these past few days; the heat does not agree with her.”

“It has indeed been very hot,” Mabeuf said, solicitously. He turned to the boy, who was becoming a young man; he felt as if he knew everything and nothing about the youngster. “And this is the young grandson?”

“Yes. His name is Marius. Do greet Monsieur,” Nicolette exhorted, and the boy stretched out his hand willingly enough.

“Good morning, Monsieur Mabeuf.” They shook hands, and the boy’s attention turned to that tall soldier at Mabeuf’s side — robust, scarred, his eyes still red with weeping, who visibly quailed under his regard. Nicolette, too, turned her curious gaze to Mabeuf’s companion, and it seemed as if disaster was imminent.

Once more, it was as if the Divine had spoken to him. Mabeuf snatched up the colonel’s hand and told the first deliberate obfuscation of his life. 

“Why, this is Georges, my dear companion from Normandy, who has come to Mass with me today. He is a stranger to our congregation.”

“Oh!” said Nicolette. For some reason, she had turned pink. “Our reading today was about Jonathan, the dear companion of King David, and how their souls were knitted together in a love that was more wonderful than the love of women…” 

She blushed more profusely. “I had not known of such a covenant! But my own knowledge of Scripture is poor, Monsieur.”

“My knowledge of Scripture is sizeable,” Mabeuf agreed, absently. He was watching as young Marius offered his hand to his estranged father, who had sacrificed everything for him without him knowing it. 

Pontmercy had turned white, but, with the fortitude of will which he had demonstrated at Austerlitz, he managed to maintain his composure as he and his son shook hands for the very first time. 

The boy said, “Good morning, Monsieur Georges. Did you enjoy Mass?”

“I did,” Pontmercy managed; this, at least, was true. His eyes shone like stars; his countenance radiated a perfect happiness that only God Himself could have imprinted. 

Observing the two of them together, Mabeuf became gradually aware of a sensation of tenderness, as if that the modest soil of his heart had for the first time been stirred to life.

Was what he had told the young girl truly an obfuscation, after all? For in the same way as the ancient cousins of Saul’s line may have cleaved to each other on a far-off battlefield, so might an old church-warden and an old soldier have so come close to each other that they might have made out of their shared solitude a similar covenant. 

It seemed unlikely. But perhaps nothing was truly happenstance under God.

* 

2.

(** [ It is always agreeable to see a lancer.](http://www.online-literature.com/victor_hugo/les_miserables/174/) **) 

Théodule was in a quandary, which really would not do. 

Was he not, after all, an officer of the 2nd Regiment of Light Cavalry Lancers of the Imperial Guard, currently deployed under the Restoration to the garrison at Melun? All military men were called on to exercise their wits quickly lest they falter in battle, and lancers of the cavalry, who led the charge for the honour of France herself, were trained to exercise those wits the most quickly of all. 

And yet — in these circumstances — he felt he could be forgiven for his temporary loss of words.

He stood on unfamiliar territory: a graveyard of a church in the town of Vernon. His cousin Marius stood before him, fists cocked, cheeks stained an angry shade of red. 

“What the devil do you want?”

This was the one thing Théodule could not tell his cousin. It was fortuitous that Marius did not recognise him — he visited Paris so rarely that Marius had never seen him and knew him only by name. If Marius discovered that Théodule had been sent by their aunt Gillenormand to spy on him — that Théodule, instead of joining his garrison directly, had been persuaded to derail his journey at Vernon and follow his cousin to what the family had believed to be a liaison with some petticoat or other — there would be hell to pay.

This was especially so since Marius was not in Vernon for the purposes of a rendezvous with a _filette_ as the Gillenormands had believed. Instead, he had clearly come to pay his respects to his dead father, who was buried in this sleepy Northern hamlet under a cross of black wood, the white letters spelling out the name _COLONEL BARON PONTMERCY_.

Théodule had never met the colonel, whom he vaguely recalled had been married to his aunt’s young half-sister, but he felt all suffused with a sensation of discomfort, comprised of respect for the dead man, respect for the sepulchre, and an unfamiliar sense of shame.

How remiss of him — to have thought that his cousin was on some frivolous errand of love, when in truth Marius had been making a pilgrimage of filial piety! Though, it must be said, this misapprehension had been entirely the fault of Aunt Gillenormand.

In any case, it now fell to Théodule to remedy this unfortunate situation before the poor boy uncovered the truth, and in his grief chose to repudiate his connection with the Gillenormand family entirely.

As a military man, Théodule’s immediate instinct, when put on the back foot, was to go on the offensive. 

“Don’t you recognise me?” he asked the angry youngster. “I’m your cousin, Lieutenant Théodule Gillenormand.”

“Oh!” Marius said; it was his turn to be taken aback. He brushed the grass off his trousers and wiped his face, which was wet with the tears he had been shedding for his father before Théodule had interrupted him. “I don’t believe we have met. We are related on my aunt’s side, are we not?”

“We are.” Théodule racked his brains for a plausible way to steer the conversation away from this particular mutual relative, who had so sorely misjudged his cousin. “I have seen your pictures in the house, of course. But I am often away from Paris with my regiment, and I don’t think we have been formally introduced.”

“I see,” Marius said, uncertainly, no doubt wondering how this cousin whom he had never met had happened to be in this small country church so far away from Paris at the exact same time as Marius himself had chosen to visit his father’s grave.

Théodule decided to meet the enemy head-on. “I am very sorry for your loss of your father the colonel, and very sorry to have interrupted you,” he said, “and you must be wondering why I am here, of all places.”

“I was wondering that, as it happens.”

“Ah, I was right,” Théodule could not help remarking. Then, under Marius’ cold gaze, he plunged straight ahead. “The truth of the matter is that I was in the same diligence as you were, from Paris to Andelys? I am on my way to join my garrison, which has been transferred from Melun. I was in the coupé, and glimpsed you descending from the imperial.”

“I see,” said Marius, not looking particularly mollified. “But why did you follow me? For as you have said, we have never met.” Then his handsome brows drew together dubiously. “Was it because you were unsure of my business in this small town — where my father has been living all these years, hidden away from me by your family?”

“No! No.” Théodule cast about frantically for inspiration, and the inspiration that struck him was of his customary ilk.

_Close_ to his customary ilk, to be more precise, but one cut one’s coat from the cloth one was given.

Hanging his head in a confiding manner, which had proved quite successful with his previous conquests, Théodule drew closer to his young cousin, and looked down at him through the long Gillenormand eyelashes.

“The truth, my dear cousin, is that I had slept badly in the diligence, pressed with the many concerns troubling my garrison. Poland is making war with France, as is Austria —,” though in reality relations between these sovereign nations had for once been relatively peaceful under Charles X, “— and our heavy responsibilities have been weighing on every man in my regiment. I was awakened by the conductor announcing our arrival at Vernon, where I was to change for the branch coach for Gaillon... I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, buttoned the waistcoat of my uniform, and stuck my head out of the coupé, and I was met by the most marvellous sight.”

Théodule paused for effect, and was gratified to note that Marius leaned in closer, despite his initial coldness. “What was it?” that young man asked.

“Why, I beheld you, my cousin. Young and carefree in your black trousers and hat, untouched by the terrible wars fought so bravely in our country, your skin unscarred by the sword-cuts of the enemy. You seemed so serious, so innocent, so good. You bought the biggest bouquet from that sweet little girl who sells flowers to travellers, and your smile seemed even brighter than the sunshine. I did not know why, but it was as if my heart had leaped up inside my breast. How was it that we had not met or spoken before? I found myself following you, to make my introductions and beg you to finally acquaint me with your noble self.”

If he was telling the whole truth, Théodule would have admitted to having made many similar speeches to various young ladies of his acquaintance, from the Rue de Trois Moulins in Melun to the Rue de Babylone in Paris, and had met, more often than not, with success. It was true that he had not yet had the opportunity to assay these well-tested charms against any young men, but — gazing intently into his handsome cousin’s eyes, taking note of the thick black curls, the indeed remarkably unblemished skin, the lips that were almost girlish, and pink with youth’s first dew — he had to admit to himself that the performance was not dissimilar, nor was it as displeasing as he might have imagined.

Marius had turned a bright shade of red. It would not have been a particularly flattering colour on many a girlish cheek, but for some reason it was extremely becoming on this young man.

“Well! I say,” that man stammered, “you shouldn’t have to beg. I would be happy to make your acquaintance! We are relations, after all.”

He bit his lip, hesitantly, and rather attractively. “Also, I would not have thought my innocence to be at all admirable. Your service of our country, Monsieur, is what is truly good and noble; I admire it so much. After all, my own father served at Waterloo.”

Well, this was a tone with which Théodule was familiar! The lieutenant straightened his shoulders, rather pleased with himself. So young Marius found something to admire in his dashing lancer cousin, did he? And why not? If a man was to look upon another man with favour in the same way as he would look upon a young lady, surely he would find much to admire in an officer of the cavalry, with his fine, hooked moustache and his uniform of reinforced cuirass and his proud tri-colored cockade, looking for all the world as if he had led the infamous cavalry charge at Austerlitz.

“He sounded like a good man, the colonel,” Théodule murmured, and was surprised to discover that he meant it.

Marius nodded, as if too overcome to speak further. Théodule belatedly realised that his cousin had laid the grand bouquet that he had purchased from the young flower-seller on his father’s grave, and this gesture moved the lieutenant in a way that he did not understand.

Perhaps it was the quiet beauty of their surroundings that touched him — the modest church gardens with its honeysuckle and green grass, the white graves beyond. Or possibly it was the thrill brought about by a rendezvous seasoned with a bit of mass, for nothing quite stirs the soul as a romance which passes under the good God’s nose.

Regardless of the actual source of his motivations, Théodule saw no reason to do other than keep to the end point which he had mapped out for himself. 

“Perhaps we can speak more about him when we break our fast?” Théodule paused, before adding, slyly, “I am not sure if you were planning to stop by overnight in Vernon, but there must at least be an inn where weary travellers can rest from their journey.”

This time, Marius did not hesitate. “I would like that,” he said, smiling his sad smile, and it was truly as if the sun had come out.

Théodule offered his arm; when his cousin took it, Théodule felt a queer jolt beneath the stays of his breastplate. 

There was nothing else to be done. He had drawn up these battle plans, and was now committed to seeing them through. In any case, there would be time tomorrow to catch the branch coach for Gaillon.

*

3.

(** [It is only among men that a creature born a dove may be changed, by education and destiny, into an osprey.](http://www.online-literature.com/victor_hugo/les_miserables/204/)**) 

Éponine might be young, but she knew all she needed to about the world she lived in — the hidden streets of the Salpêtrière, for example, as and the people who lived there.

She _absolutely_ knew what those people got up to with each other when the sun went down: under bridges, in alleyways, and in more private places like this one, in the basement of No. 42, a stone’s throw from their new home in the Gorbeau tenement. She’d even run errands for the men and women of No. 42 and hadn’t batted an eye once — even when those errands were the romantic kind, which happened, more often than not, in No. 42. 

She had to admit, though, that she hadn’t realised being tied up was part of romance! Clearly, she still had a lot to learn.

That evening, she’d wandered into the curtained-off corridor at the back of No. 42, as she had done many times before. She’d followed Kitty, a tall, striking Englishwoman whom she knew to be one of her father’s friends. The passageway was dark. The doors were usually shut, but this one was open, and as she paused in front of it she heard a voice she recognised.

“Ladies, ladies, this won’t do. Please release me at once!” 

It wasn’t surprising she recognised the speaker; as previously noted, Éponine knew many things and many people. What surprised her was the speaker himself. 

Marius Pontmercy lived next door to the Jondrettes in the Gorbeau tenement. He was a bookish young man, and was poor and poorly dressed even by the standards of No. 42. Despite his poverty, he’d been kind to her — he’d let her read his books, even though they all seemed to contain war stories about Waterloo, and he’d told her about his father, who had, like her own father, in fact fought at Waterloo. He’d given her money for food, even though he looked like he was himself undernourished. 

Éponine pushed her way into the room, where, in the light of several flickering candles, she discovered a very unusual scenario indeed. 

Marius was seated in a chair; he was secured by the wrists and ankles to its thick, heavy armrests and legs with colourful scarves. His cravat had been removed, his shirt was open at the neck, and —Éponine couldn’t help staring— the flap of his trousers was undone.

The person who had undone it was on their knees in front of Marius, saying, “Tut, sweetheart, you’re having the time of your life,” and rummaging around inside his trousers. 

It was Magnon; Éponine recognised the well-dressed older lady who was frequently in Kitty’s company. She was much better dressed than Marius himself, in a brocade gown that was loosely laced over her generous breasts, dark hair spilling across her shoulders.

The two ladies and their prisoner looked up when Éponine burst in. “Éponine!” they all exclaimed in surprise, Marius included.

“Scram, little miss, this doesn’t concern you,” Kitty said in her accented French, as Magnon said, turning her attention back to Marius, “Hé, you know this girl?”

“Marius,” Éponine said. Her heart had started to beat very quickly. “What are you doing here?”

Marius didn’t look down at Magnon; he held Éponine’s gaze with eyes that were equal parts relief and fear. “Madame Burgon said this was the place for a drink in the neighbourhood, where nobody discusses politics? And these ladies did buy me several drinks — not that I’m not grateful, ladies, truly — but then they would not take no for an answer, and I’m not certain exactly how, but I found myself here in this state.”

Éponine felt an immense relief of her own. So Marius had not willingly succumbed to the ladies’ advances after all, but had merely blundered into their trap! And he even looked somewhat abashed as well as afraid — with a start, she realised the fear was for her, as well as for himself. 

“He has only sixteen sou on him,” Kitty pointed out. She was leaning against the wall, going through the contents of Marius’ purse, with what looked like a policeman’s cane tucked under one arm.

Magnon shrugged her rounded shoulders: “Too bad. At least he’s pretty enough that we can recoup our investment another way, no?”

“No!” Marius said, struggling against his bonds. His cheeks and chest were flushed with drink, and his curls clung to his perspiring forehead. Éponine’s own cheeks burned; she wondered if she should leave to get help, but who could she count on for rescue in this place? 

Then it came to her in an abrupt blaze.

“Leave him be, he’s mine,” she said, pushing herself between Marius and Magnon. “You wouldn’t steal from Jondrette’s daughter, would you?” 

“He’s yours? A likely story,” Magnon scoffed, sitting back on her heels, and Kitty put the purse down and strolled over.

“Nice try. How did you manage to snag a bourgeois student like this one?”

“He lives next door to us — that is, he used to live there,” Éponine amended hastily, for she could just imagine these ladies deciding to visit the next day. “He’s poor, but that’s because of politics. His father fought at Waterloo.”

“Hm.” Kitty leaned in so she could stare at Éponine’s expression. This close, Éponine could see the motes in the Englishwoman’s green eyes, the mole on her upper lip, could smell her cheap perfume. “It’s a good story, I almost believe you. But why would he want to romance a skinny little bit like you when he could have his pick of full-grown women?”

Kitty’s proximity was making Éponine shiver — with nerves, as well as something else. She had to act quickly. Boldly, she stuck out her hand, and took the cane from under Kitty’s arm. 

On closer inspection, it wasn’t in fact a policeman’s cane, but a flexible crop that Éponine recognised from illustrations in the books about Napoleon’s calvary at Waterloo. Lancers used these crops to control their horses when they rode into battle. Clearly the crops had other uses than for riding horses…

She still had a lot to learn, but she was a quick study.

“Let me show you,” she said to Kitty and Magnon, and then turned back to Marius. 

“You do belong to me, don’t you,” she said. Her voice sounded more tentative than she liked; to steel herself to harshness, she smacked the crop into her free hand, and the sound cracked around the room like a pistol-shot.

Marius’s body jerked as if he had in fact been shot. “Yes?” he whispered, even more tentatively.

Éponine hit her hand with the crop again. “I can’t hear you,” she said, and this time, her voice rang out strongly.

“Yes. Yes, I belong to you,” Marius said, so humbly that Éponine almost believed it.

She used the crop to pat Marius’ sweating face. “Don’t forget,” she said seriously, trying to sound as stern as Marius’ soldier father would have been with his men, or as her own father sounded every day of her life. “Don’t forget, otherwise I’ll have to punish you.”

“I won’t forget,” Marius breathed. In the candlelight, his fluttering eyelashes were golden; the skin of his undefended throat gleamed a burnished bronze. Despite herself, Éponine felt a stirring of something in her own throat.

When Éponine turned around, Magnon had gotten to her feet, and she and Kitty had linked their arms together. They were smiling; Éponine could almost believe their smiles were entirely kindly. 

“Well well, little miss, we shouldn’t have doubted you. You’ve got more fire in your belly than old Jondrette has and no mistake.”

“Leave the crop, and take your bourgeois and go before we change our minds,” Magnon said, with an imperious wave of her hand.

The knots in the silk scarves were tightly tied, but Éponine knew the trick to untying them. She had Marius loose in a jiffy. She did not dare look down as Marius refastened his trousers and his shirt; she kept her gaze on his pale, anguished face. 

When Marius’ circulation had returned and he could walk with Éponine’s assistance, they fled No. 42 without looking back.

“Do you have somewhere else to sleep tonight?” Éponine enquired once they were on the main Boulevard de l’Hôpital. It would be safer for Marius not to return to the Gorbeau tenement for a while; to stay far away from the Salpêtrière.

“I do.” Marius paused. “I say, Éponine, I owe you my life, or at the very least, my chastity. Ask of me anything you wish and I will do it.” 

He tried to smile. His arm around her shoulders was very warm, but then again, it was quite a warm night; it wouldn’t do to put too much store in such things.

Nevertheless, Éponine felt the triumph bubble up inside her, making her feel as if she could do anything at all. She might be young, but she knew many things, and she had just learned many more on this surprising night, including about her own power.

“Of course! After all, you belong to me,” she said sweetly, and watched Marius flush becomingly again.

*

4.

(** [ If you have occasion for the services of the police, come here, and ask for Inspector Javert.](http://www.online-literature.com/victor_hugo/les_miserables/214/)**) 

Javert, Inspector (1st Class) of the Paris Police, found several aphorisms to be instructive in his professional life. One of these seemed particularly pertinent to the current circumstances: _If you wanted a thing done well, do it yourself_.

Besides, the other candidates had all flatly refused to participate.

“You’re not our actual commissaire,” Duchamp, Inspector (3rd Class) had pointed out, and Javert had not been able to gainsay this inconveniently accurate remark.

Which was how he had arrived at this pass: in the attire of a gentleman, wearing a silk cravat which Sergeant Lavalle had pressed upon him, shoes polished to an unfamiliar sheen, passing the evening in a dilapidated salon on the corner of the Boulevard de l’Hôpital attended by other men for one express purpose. Fortunately, such a purpose was no longer illegal under the Code Penal, as long as there were no minors involved. 

The lighting of the salon was dim, which made it difficult for Javert to verify conclusively that there were in fact no minors present. The table at which he sat was small; his legs crammed uncomfortably underneath it, and there seemed nowhere he could put his hands on its surface that did not result in contact with his companion’s. 

It had to be said, that companion looked equally reluctant to touch Javert. 

The boy’s name was Marius Pontmercy, an unremarkable name for an unprepossessing (and also clearly out-of-work) lawyer. He had come into the station-house at the Rue de Pontoise this afternoon in order to report a crime. The alleged criminal was a man who rented the apartment adjoining Marius’s, on the second floor of the Gorbeau tenement in the Boulevard de l’Hôpital ; the alleged victim-to-be was to be lured into a trap there this evening by the criminal and his confederates — which Javert recognised, from Marius’ descriptions, as members of the infamous Patron-Minette gang. 

There was no means of identifying and warning the victim beforehand. Besides, what Javert really desired was to apprehend the gang red-handed, which meant that he needed to spring a trap of his own.

Marius had looked askance at the suggestion that he hide in his apartment with two of Javert’s pistols, and fire them to signal the moment he saw the gang put their nefarious plans into action.

“I’m not sure your men will be able to hear the gunshots, Inspector. The neighbourhood is very noisy at that time of the evening.”

Javert had frowned. “I see. Well, then, we will have to contrive some excuse for my men and I to lie in wait in your apartment itself.”

Javert had not then understood the sudden blush that suffused the lawyer’s face. “I don’t think that’s possible,” he had muttered. “My landlady is very strict about visitors. She runs a salon on the ground floor; nobody goes upstairs without her express permission.” 

“If that’s so, then she must be in cahoots with the gang,” Javert had mused. Then he stopped, and fixed Marius with a penetrating gaze.

“…What kind of salon does she run?”

When Marius finally managed to tell him, the nature of the trap-to-be unfurled before his eyes in all its horrifying glory. 

“Is the salon only for _older_ patrons?” Lavalle had asked. Somehow, during Marius’ halting account, the other officers of the station-house had found their way upstairs into the commissaire’s office and were now listening intently to their conversation.

Marius had said, miserably, “Not entirely. But the younger patrons seem to be there in order to meet the older ones? At least that’s what the waiters say. They also say Madame Burgon only permits them to take time off their shift to entertain the patrons if she gets a large enough tip, and the older ones are the best paymasters.”

When Javert had looked around the commissaire’s crowded office for candidates to be deployed on this undercover mission, he found the men all looking studiously away. 

“Dupont? Marcel?”

“I don’t think the rest of us are the right age, Monsieur,” Sergeant Marcel said, seriously, and Lavalle said, with an air of innocence, “Besides, Inspector, we wouldn’t do half as good a job as you.”

Javert knew this remark was manipulation of the worst order, but it was also inconveniently accurate.

The truth of this was borne out that evening when he and Marius arrived at the Gorbeau Salon. Going from what he could observe of the clientele that had already crowded into the dingy space, it would appear that the majority of the patrons were indeed approximately Javert’s age; greying and weathered, and well-dressed.

Marius was greeted by an imposing old woman, undoubtedly the previously-mentioned Madame Burgon. 

“Well, Monsieur Marius, fancy you finally joining in our revels! Look you, he’s lived here for months and not even once tried to smuggle a girl up to his room.” She looked from him to Javert. “Now at last I understand why that’s so.” 

Then her beady eyes narrowed. “Or could it be that you’re just trying to make some coin on the side?”

“No,” Marius stammered, and Javert, seeing his plans start to unravel before they could even start, reached out to seize the young ninny’s hand. 

Marius jerked like a frightened rabbit at the touch. Javert had been expecting this, and he clasped his free arm around the boy’s shoulders so he couldn’t flee. 

“We would like some wine, Madame, and a quiet table,” he said, firmly.

Madame Burgon’s piercing gaze scoured him, but she was now concentrating on the cut of his borrowed coat and the make of his hat rather than on his face, which was precisely what Javert had hoped. “Of course, Monsieur,” she said in ingratiating tones that conveyed that his undercover attire had passed muster, and Javert steered Marius to the indicated corner, hoping the lawyer’s skittishness could be passed off as virginal nerves.

“I’m not certain I can go through with this,” the boy muttered, once safely installed at what seemed to be the smallest table in the salon. “I’ve never done the like before.”

Javert rolled his eyes. “Never done what before?” he enquired in the same undertone. “Assisted the police with undercover surveillance? I would not imagine you were taught this at law school.”

“That is not what I meant,” Marius said. He squared his shoulders, and glared at Javert with a surprising dignity. “I meant, I have never visited a salon with a patron.”

Javert could not hold back his snort of derision. Heads turned in their direction, and to cover for his misstep, the Inspector was compelled to engage once again in a show of physical affection.

“Does that surprise you, Monsieur?” Marius hissed, but this time he did not pull away.

“It doesn’t concern me,” Javert said, stiffly, although in truth he had assumed the young lawyer would be innocent of the activities currently in progress at the tables around them, and had nevertheless staked the success of this mission on Marius’ acting abilities.

“But it should concern you,” Marius said, as if he had just read Javert’s mind; “for how else could you be assured of success if you believed I might not possess the requisite experience?” 

Javert had himself very little experience in the lists of love, but he did not think grinding one’s teeth together was a sign of lover-like behaviour; with some effort, he resisted the temptation to do just that. “There is a first time for everything,” he said firmly. 

Marius settled back in his chair. As a young waiter approached their table with drinks, he enquired, mulishly, “And what about you, Monsieur? Is this a first time for you as well?”

At first Javert did not deign to respond to this ridiculous question, but when the waiter showed no sign of leaving them alone, he was compelled to reply. “It is, as it happens.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, either,” Marius said, and the waiter chimed in, brightly, “Nor does it surprise me! You two have an air of new lovers still not at ease with one another.”

As Javert transferred his glare from Marius to the waiter, the interloper added, “I’ve seen this lad around these parts, of course, but he’s always been alone and palely loitering. Until now! How did you manage to catch this fine papa, Pontmercy?”

Both Javert and Marius choked on their drinks. Surprisingly, it was Marius who recovered first. “None of your business, Guillaume. Go catch your own papa; there seem to be fish aplenty out on the streets tonight.”

Guillaume grinned good-humouredly and slipped away. Marius turned back to Javert; his eyes were sparkling, and he suddenly seemed more worldly in the light of this decidedly worldly milieu. 

“Do you have a cover story as to how our relationship began, Monsieur?”

Javert did not, as it happened; he had not believed one to be necessary, but he had clearly not reckoned with inquisitive landladies or serving staff, or with the fact that this young lawyer might have unexpected depths. He also recalled that interrogation was a skill taught to law students as well as to officers of the police. 

Still, he did his best work while thinking on his feet. _Be prepared for anything_ was another aphorism he had found to be useful. 

“If anyone asks, we should simply say that I am an acquaintance of your father.” Surely this was a plausible enough story that featured in real relationships between older patrons and younger protégés.

However, it was instantly obvious that this was the wrong choice. Marius’ face twisted with grief; seated this close, even Javert could not mistake the glimmer of tears in the dark eyes. 

“My father is dead.”

What might one do when one’s lover was crying in public? Awkwardly, Javert patted Marius’ hand, and was astonished when the young man clung to his fingers. 

“…Presumably he might have made acquaintances before his demise…?”

Marius sniffled. “I don’t know. I never truly knew him. He was a colonel, he fought bravely at Waterloo. He was a most courageous man, but I’m not sure he had many friends.”

“I see.” Perhaps it was from such paternal hero-worship that young men developed an affinity for older patrons. But Javert, unfamiliar as he was with such matters, did not feel qualified to speculate further.

He was also beginning to heartily regret this plan. It was almost six o’clock, and there was as yet no sign of Patron-Minette or their white-haired victim, let alone to an end to this already interminable evening. And to add insult to injury, he had inadvertently reduced his young confederate to tears, which did not speak at all well of his patron’s disguise.

_One always makes the best of a bad situation._ He handed Marius his handkerchief. “How much longer before we can go upstairs?”

In lieu of a reply, Marius blew his nose noisily into the cotton. With unfortunate timing, Guillaume chose that moment to return to the table, and was able to respond to this query with as much glee as could be expected. 

“Eager, aren’t we, Monsieur? Madame usually asks for three drinks before the patrons are allowed to retire. You might as well fortify yourself, because you’re in for a long night.”

Javert tried to suppress a sigh. He was in no doubt that this would indeed be so; the disadvantage of doing everything himself was that he would only have himself to blame if things went awry.

*

5.

(** [One can never foresee the spark, nor divine the lightning flash, of two hearts that cleave together as one.](http://www.online-literature.com/victor_hugo/les_miserables/177/)**)

All those who had eyes to see and ears to hear knew the hour was nearly upon them. Not a point in Paris was exempt from it, the blood was beating everywhere. A letter written in pencil had just made its rounds in the veins that undergirded the city: _“In the week that follows, within four hours by the clock, eighty thousand patriots will be under arms.”_

The approaching insurrection was preparing its storm in the face of the government. Everyone knew his place, and their little coterie was no different. Feuilly was bound for the Glacière, Bahorel the Estrapade, and Combeferre had promised to visit the swarm at Picpus. Prouvaire would be sent to stir up the masons at the lodge of the Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Honoré, Joly, to feel the pulse of the medical school at Dupuytren’s clinical lectures, and Bossuet, to pay court to the young law licentiates at the assizes of the Palais de Justice, while Enjolras would take personal charge of the Cougourde.

Courfeyrac himself had been tasked to visit the students at the École Polytechnic. They had the day off on Wednesday; the week’s labours would have worked them up into a fever; they would be crying out for action. Courfeyrac planned to take them to the café on the corner of the Montagne Saint-Geneviève, where a judicious administration of coffee and courage would heighten their zeal for the nation, glory, and for Science.

And yet, while they were all gathered in readiness, there was one who was missing. 

Marius had refused to leave the apartment for several days now. After arriving on Courfeyrac’s doorstep that winter like a gift from the gods, and throwing himself into a frenzy of work that had lasted into the spring, ignoring all Courfeyrac’s attempts to draw him back into their circle, Marius had one morning returned home a little after dawn, flung himself onto his mattress, and lain there as though turned into a marble statue of himself. 

He had refused to say what the matter was, though he did at least suffer Courfeyrac to join him on the mattress and embrace him. Courfeyrac felt the almost-reluctant beating of Marius’ heart through both their clothes, which was how he could tell that Marius was alive. 

Courfeyrac had not known how to rouse his friend from this miserable state. He had redoubled his efforts to rekindle Marius’ interest in their common cause, but these attempts had been met with resounding failure. 

Last night, Courfeyrac had lain awake all night, clasping his friend in his arms while Marius slept like the dead, as if he could draw Marius’ sadness into his own body by sheer force of will. It hadn’t worked, and Courfeyrac had been obliged to attend this morning’s meeting at the Café Musain without him.

There, Enjolras was concluding his remarks to their assembled group about the necessary dispositions, when he ended with, “There is one final, important thing.”

“What is that?” asked Courfeyrac.

“The marble-workers at the Barrière du Maine,” replied Enjolras. “I don’t know what has been the matter with them lately; I fear their hearts are elsewhere. There is urgent need that someone should go and talk with them with firmness.”

He paused, and then added, “For that errand I had counted on Marius, who is a good fellow, but he no longer comes to us.”

“Marius has not been coming to us for weeks,” Grantaire remarked. “It concerns a love affair. Marius is a fog, and he has found a miasma: his Marie, or his Marion, or his Maria, or his Mariette. They must make a queer pair of lovers. Ecstasies in which they forget to kiss! Pure in the flesh, and joined in the stars! They are souls possessed of senses but devoid of bodies. It is for such spiritual heavens that he has turned from our more earthly pursuits.”

“What fanciful absurdities!” cried Courfeyrac, though he had rather feared himself that was the case. Marius — his modest, serious friend who had once been so quick to avoid all women, young and old, who had for these past years of friendship and months of living in close quarters and days of sharing a bed, been entirely insensible to Courfeyrac’s own array of charms throughout — Marius must have fallen prey to Cupid at last.

Enjolras stepped in close to Grantaire, a tremendous frown creasing his brow. “Is this one of your absinthe-addled imaginings? Or do you have any basis for such slanders of our absent brother?”

“Indeed, I am wounded! Falsely accused of slander, is that not slander in itself…? Last summer I had an encounter, at the Luxembourg Gardens, with Marius’ coat and hat, but Marius himself was not in them. His corporeal form was leaned gently against a tree, and angled in a direct line toward a park bench, as true as an arrow flies. Upon this bench was seated a budding Aphrodite, a Prosperina in the first flush of her youth. Her skirts were fashionable, her hat was blue, her entire form was an orchard of hidden delights … and it was apparent that his heart had flown from his chest into the fold of her chemise, never to return to him.”

“Last summer, you say? Around the time when he began to be less frequent in our company?” Enjolras’ frown deepened further, and Courfeyrac sprang to Marius’ defence. 

“These whims and conjectures are born from baser spirits than the pure spirit of truth, Enjolras. Marius is a stalwart, there’s no man more steadfast in the quarter, and if he is needed by his brothers, I am certain he will come to our aid.” At least, Courfeyrac _hoped_ that Marius would rouse to the occasion as so described.

Grantaire had just opened his mouth to protest, which was when another entered the back room, and cast his hat onto the Table Round. It was none other than the man himself.

Courfeyrac, and the others, were momentarily shocked into silence. Marius looked thinner, paler, almost transparent around the edges, as if his very humanity had become transformed by the gloomy glory of the Underworld itself. The sad grandeur of his demeanour struck Courfeyrac like various diverse claps of thunder, like a hammer-blow to the breast-bone; for an instant, he could barely breathe.

Marius raised his sorrowing, splendid countenance to Enjolras’. His jaw was set in lines of determination. “Tell me where I am needed.”

“At the Barrière du Maine,” Enjolras said. He seemed insensible to Marius’ new magnificence; Courfeyrac could only wonder why not everyone present could see how completely the lad had been transfigured. “But are you capable of it, I wonder?”

“I assure you, Enjolras, I will do what must be done.”

“You, indoctrinate republicans? You, set fire to hearts that have grown cold in the name of principle?”

“The very same.”

Enjolras meditated for a few moments, then he shook his head resolutely. 

“I cannot entrust this important mission, let alone our cause, to any man upon whose heart a prior claim has been made… If a tenth of what Grantaire has said is true, that you have been pierced by love’s arrow and now belong to some girl in a blue hat, then certainly the Republic will not ask of you to sacrifice yourself, and to die far away from her. Go home, Marius.”

It was Marius’ turn to look astounded. He turned even paler, disbelief warring openly with despair across his finely-chiselled features. His mouth opened, his lips fluttered, but no sound issued forth. 

It was into this desperate breach that Courfeyrac flung himself, instinctively, without thought or hesitation. Here, finally, was the culmination of his week-long efforts — Marius had finally surfaced from his stupor, and rejoined the cause, and must surely be on the mend at last! Only, thanks to Grantaire’s untimely remarks, Enjolras had now been placed in doubt of Marius’ motivations, and was on the brink of sending Marius home, and ruining everything.

Such a disaster would not do, and it would not occur if Courfeyrac could prevent it — and certainly if anyone could undertake such a task, it would be him: paladin, champion of the needy, and not at all a man fervently in love.

“There is no prior claim! Or at least, no prior claim apart from my own.”

All of them turned to him, their faces a Delacroix composition of astonishment, and none more astonished than Marius’ own. 

Seized by his own inspiration, Courfeyrac stepped between Marius and Enjolras, and addressed them all in a ringing voice:

“My friends, as you all know, Marius has been installed with me at the Rue de la Verrerie since the spring. At our first meeting on the stones of the Place Saint-Michel, I felt an instant connection with him; it was as if I had recognised in him a spirit that was kin to my own, as if, as Aristophanes says, we were one soul cleft in two by the gods to curb mankind’s growing power... I asked him to come home with me. I brought him to our circle of brotherhood and initiated him into the knowledge of Jean-Jacques and Robespierre and the late, lamented Antoine Manuel. We fell together slowly, as Castor cleaved to Polydeuces on the battlefields of Troy, as revolution swells and foments inexorably under feudalism and privilege that are not shared amongst honest men. We have shared a room, we have come to share a bed, and, above all, we now share a heart. And here it is before you, a heart that beats for our brothers, and the Republic, and has no room for anything else.” 

Catching hold of Marius’ hand stoutly, he turned to face Enjolras.

“You told him to go home? He _is_ home; his home is with me, and mine is here with all of you.”

The stunned silence that followed this action, and these remarks, swept across the assembled gathering like the vapours throughout a body, spreading across the room like a slowly-gathering fire that fanned into a blaze. Beside him, Courfeyrac could feel Marius shivering, the tremors running through their flanking bodies as a high wind.

Then Enjolras smiled his fierce, bright smile, and said, “Very well, I consent to entrust you with this mission,” and Bahorel exclaimed, “Capital!” and clapped Courfeyrac on the shoulder, and Grantaire wrung Marius’s free hand in both of his.

“Citizen, I have indeed slandered you! I cast my most abject apologies at your feet. I ought to have known that no mere jade, no bonnet-bedecked maiden, could stir the heart of a true republican or to sway him from his course. No, for one such as you, only the love of a man of the people would suffice.”

Neither was Courfeyrac spared. “And you, my friend, I congratulate you! What verve, what spirit, what an extraordinary escape! For unlike the hypothetical Marietta, you, my redoubtable champion, would never permit of a love strictly pure in body and soul. It is well. Our friend is too young and vigorous a Ganymede to confine himself to a life of monkish privation. Oh, I hear your prattle about your united hearts, I do, but you do not speak of your united flesh. You do not need to. I know your room boasts only one mattress.”

“In fact, my bed is furnished with two,” Courfeyrac began, but Grantaire had already moved on to a new bottle of absinthe.

Enjolras rapped his fist against the table, saying, “And now, to your positions,” and the spell was broken. Laughing, bantering, taking up their coats and hats, the Friends of the ABC began readying themselves to depart. Only Combeferre hesitated for a moment, as if he had his doubts as to Courfeyrac’s cover story, but then he, too, directed his attentions elsewhere.

Under cover of this activity, Courfeyrac finally dared turn to Marius. His friend was still shivering, his gaze was shuttered and distant; the fingers that were still laced between Courfeyrac’s burned hot as if with fever. 

Courfeyrac was seldom at a loss for words, or ill at ease, but he found he did not know what to say. In Marius’ eyes was a darkness he could not navigate, a barrier which he knew not how to breach.

He paused, then, awkwardly loosing Marius’ hand, he began to speak in a rapid undertone:

“I know what you must be thinking, and I am sorry for it. But it was the only thing I thought I could do, in the moment, which could throw the others off the scent…! Grantaire saw you at the Luxembourg with a girl, and painted you as unreliable and in love; it was no large feat to persuade them that you were reliable and in love with me instead.”

Still Marius did not speak, though a flush began to crawl up from under his cravat, until his pale throat and fine, high cheekbones were stained scarlet.

Courfeyrac continued, even more desperately, “Please do not be unhappy with me. You know I meant you no disrespect, that I hold you in the highest regard… I will understand if you do not wish to continue our rooming arrangements. That is, I will of course be sorry, but I will understand.”

At last Marius seemed to find his voice. “Courfeyrac,” he said. “I…no, I am not angry. Don’t be sorry. I understand why you felt,” — here he took a deep, shuddering breath — “why you felt compelled to provide that story to the others. I understand you meant me no disrespect. Let me assure you none was taken.”

He tried to smile. It was ghastly. Courfeyrac passed his arm around Marius’ shoulders; once again, it was like embracing a statue.

Courfeyrac felt a desperate gulf yawning within him. It was challenge enough, passing these months and weeks and days in Marius’ company, becoming privy to Marius’ feelings for his beloved father, Colonel Pontmercy, and his views on Bonapartists, growing accustomed to such intimate details such as how Marius would perform his ablutions in the mornings and how he would sleep terribly at night, while still being kept as distant as ever from the great secrets of Marius’ life.

How had it come to pass that Courfeyrac could be familiar with the scent of his friend’s skin, could have even fallen asleep with his lips against the nape of Marius’ neck, and could yet be no wiser regarding the mystery of the girl in the blue hat, of the loan of a periodic five francs, of the grief that was even now consuming Marius from the inside?

His heart ached — the heart which he had told their friends had cleaved to Marius’ from the moment they had met. Perhaps it was not just a fancy of his and Aristophanes’, after all. Perhaps Grantaire, who had subsided into his cups, had stumbled upon one half of the truth. 

“I must go,” Marius said, eventually. “The Barrière du Maine awaits.”

With an effort, Courfeyrac loosened his arms from Marius’ neck. For the first time, he found he could not look Marius squarely in the face.

“Will you be at home later?”

The words hung between them; words which Courfeyrac had carelessly spoken a hundred times, but never before in the wake of such circumstances of a fictitious declaration of love that might — as a covert rear-guard action, a sliver of news lodged with police agents as a distraction from main events — not be nevertheless entirely untrue.

Marius considered the words solemnly, and then his lips quirked in a slight, wry smile.

“Did you not say this to our brothers yourself? Indeed, my home is with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: [The 2e régiment de chevau-légers lanciers de la Garde Impériale (English: 2nd Regiment of Light Cavalry Lancers of the Imperial Guard)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2e_r%C3%A9giment_de_chevau-l%C3%A9gers_lanciers_de_la_Garde_Imp%C3%A9riale) was a light cavalry regiment in Napoleon I's Imperial Guard. They were formed in 1810, after the Kingdom of Holland was annexed by France, and were active until 1815. One assumes Théodule and his horse were of this regiment, even though in 1828 under the Bourbons there was no active armed conflict requiring their attentions.
> 
> École Polytechnique details [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%89cole_Polytechnique#Montagne_Saint-Genevi%C3%A8ve_\(1805-1976\)).
> 
> Thanks, as always, to K for the beta!


End file.
